All the Time We've Left to Spend

When she got to Yume’s room, the first thing Ruriko did was slip off her mask and remove her prosthetic jaw. There was an ache in her fake bottom teeth. It was going to rain, although one look at the sky could have told her that.

Olivia's Table

Olivia blew into town with the storm and headed straight for The Grand Silver Hotel. Pots and containers of sauces and marinade clattered in the trunk of her Toyota, packed in with the rest of the groceries she’d brought from Phoenix. The evening sky hung heavy with dark clouds, but the shrinking Arizona sun still burned her arms through the car windows.

Bisden was one of those mining towns that had sprung up in the 1800s, flourished for a while, and then all but died once the silver ran out. Now, the town made its money from the tourists who trickled in, hoping to see two things: a real Wild West ghost town, and one of the most haunted historical sites in the southwest.

First published in A Thousand Beginnings and Endings, Greenwillow Books, 2018.

Hungry Daughters of Starving Mothers

As my date—Harvey? Harvard?—brags about his alma mater and Manhattan penthouse, I take a bite of overpriced kale and watch his ugly thoughts swirl overhead. It’s hard to pay attention to him with my stomach growling and my body ajitter, for all he’s easy on the eyes. Harvey doesn’t look much older than I am, but his thoughts, covered in spines and centipede feet, glisten with ancient grudges and carry an entitled, Ivy League stink.

“My apartment has the most amazing view of the city,” he’s saying, his thoughts sliding long over each other like dark, bristling snakes. Each one is as thick around as his Rolex-draped wrist. “I just installed a Jacuzzi along the west wall so that I can watch the sun set while I relax after getting back from the gym.”

You'll Surely Drown Here If You Stay

When the desert finally lets you go, naked and stumbling, your body humming with raw power and the song of dead things coiled under your tongue, you find Marisol waiting for you at the edge of the bluffs.

What My Mother Left Me

The sky above Nag’s Head is stained an uneasy shade of gray by the time we pull up to my parents’ North Carolina beach house. Beyond the dunes and waving field of sea grass, the water is sharp and choppy, the color of slate.

“Shit,” says Gina, climbing out of the Range Rover. She shades her eyes, her long, lavender-dyed hair flapping across her face. The wind slaps us both with the salty, thick smell of the ocean. “You brought the keys, right?”

Her eyeliner is perfect, as usual. I can’t believe she drew it on in the passenger seat while I was doing 90 on the I-40, eager to put as much distance between us and Duke University as possible.

First published in The Devil and the Deep: Horror Stories of the Sea, Nightshade Books, 2018.

The Fisher Queen

My mother was a fish. That’s why I can swim so well, according to my father, who is a plain fisherman with a fisherman’s plain logic, but uncanny flair for the dramatic. And while it’s true I can cut through the water like a minnow, or a hand dipped over the edge of a speedboat, I personally think it’s because no one can grow up along the Mekong without learning two things: how to swim, and how to avoid the mermaids.

Your Bones Will Not Be Unknown

I stuck close to the wall and let my corneal camera watch the action for me. All around, beautifully-attired crime lords bared their teeth at each other over expensive cocktails. Posturing aside, no one would dare start a feud at the Elder Brothers’ new Boss’ debut party, even if it was being held at the tackiest Chinese restaurant in town.

First published in Cyber World: Tales of Humanity's Tomorrow, Hex Publishers, 2016.

Scarecrow

On the morning of his funeral, you wake screaming from nightmares of Jonathan Chin, your mouth crammed full of feathers. A craving for sky sKY SKY electrifies you from pounding heart to fingertips. Your hands are empty and twisted like claws, the body of a ghost boy slipping from your grasp.

You see him as clearly as if he’d been cut from your mind and pasted on the walls in front of you. Jonathan Chin is a fixture in your room, etched into every shadow. Jonathan Chin is in your mouth, your belly.

Santos de Sampaguitas

The dead god descends on me as I sleep, the way it did my mother the night before my conception, and my grandmother before that. Even with my dream-eyes shut, I know it's there; the weight of folded limbs on my body threatens to crush my ribs, and I can smell the wreaths of sweet sampaguita hanging from its neck.

"Go away, po," I tell it, adding the honorific since Nanay always taught me not to be rude to gods. "I'm having a good dream for once."